POEMS 

BY 

EDWARD    THOMAS 


/BERK*l£Y^V 

LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA       / 


J 


»^ 

1 


POEMS  BY  EDWARD  THOMAS 


Books    by    EDWARD    THOMAS 


THE  WOODLAND  LIFE Black  wood 

THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY Dent 

THE  HEART  OF  ENGLAND        Dent 

THE  PURSUIT  OF  SPRING         Nelson 

OXFORD       A.  &  C.  Black 

BEAUTIFUL  WALES          ...        ...        ...  A.  &  C.  Black 

THE  ICKNIELD  WAY       Methuen 

CELTIC  STUDIES Oxford  Univ.  Press 

NORSE  TALES        ...  Oxford  Univ.  Press 

FOUR-AND-TWENTY    BLACKBIRDS  ...  Duckworth 

THE  HAPPY-GO-LUCKY  MORGANS      ...  Duckworth 

ROSE  ACRE  PAPERS  AND  HOR^E  SOLI 
TARY    ...  Duckworth 

REST  AND  UNREST         Duckworth 

LIGHT  AND  TWILIGHT Duckworth 

RICHARD  JEFFERIES        Hutchinson 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK          Methuen 

A/  C.  SWINBURNE  Seeker 

WALTER  PATER Seeker 

GEORGE  BORROW Chapman  &  Hall 

MARLBOROUGH      Chapman  &  Hall 

FEMININE  INFLUENCE  ON  THE  POETS  Seeker 


EDITED. 
POCKET-BOOKS      OF      SONGS     FOR     THE 

OPEN  AIR       Grant  Richards 

THIS  ENGLAND     Oxford  Univ.  Press 


POEMS 


BY 


EDWARD    THOMAS 

("EDWARD    EASTAWAY") 


WITH  A  PORTRAIT 
FROM  A  PHOTOGRAPH 
BY  DUNCAN  WILLIAMS 


NEW   YORK 
HENRY    HOLT   <&    COMPANY 

1917 


Qi.7 


TO 

ROBERT   FROST 


978 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  TRUMPET 9 

THE  SIGN-POST      ....  9 

TEARS .10 

Two  PEWITS .11 

THE  MANOR  FARM          ....  .12 

THE  OWL .12 

SWEDES          ......  13 

WILL  YOU  COME  ?  14 

As  THE  TEAM'S  HEAD-BRASS  .          .          .          .          -15 

THAW 16 

INTERVAL      ....  .  .16 

LIKE  THE  TOUCH  OF  RAIN      .....        17 

THE  PATH     ........        18 

THE  COMBE  ...  .19 

IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  BY  CHANCE       ....        19 

WHAT  SHALL  I  GIVE  ?    .  20 

IF  I  WERE  TO  OWN        ......       2O 

AND  YOU,  HELEN  .  ...        21 

WHEN  FIRST  .......        22 

HEAD  AND  BOTTLE         ......        23 

AFTER  YOU  SPEAK          ......       24 

SOWING          .  24 

WHEN  WE  TWO  WALKED         .....        25 

IN  MEMORIAM        .......        26 

FIFTY  FAGGOTS      .......       26 

WOMEN  HE  LIKED  ......       26 

EARLY  ONE  MORNING     ......        27 

CHERRY  TREES 28 


PAGE 

IT  RAINS     '......  .28 

THE  HUXTER         .......       29 

A  GENTLEMAN       .......       29 

THE  BRIDGE -30 

LOB      .........       30 

BRIGHT  CLOUDS     .          .          .          .          .          .          -35 

THE  CLOUDS  THAT  ARE  so  LIGHT    .          .          .          .36 

SOME  EYES  CONDEMN     ......       36 

MAY  23 37 

THE  GLORY  .......       39 

MELANCHOLY          .          .          .          .          .          .          .       40 

ADLESTROP   ........       40 

THE  GREEN  ROADS        .          .          .          .          .          .41 

THE  MILL-POND     .......       42 

IT  WAS  UPON          .......       43 

TALL  NETTLES       .......       43 

HAYMAKING  .......       44 

How  AT  ONCE       .......       45 

GONE,  GONE  AGAIN         ......       46 

THE  SUN  USED  TO  SHINE        .....       47 

OCTOBER       ........       48 

THE  LONG  SMALL  ROOM  .....       49 

LIBERTY        ........       50 

NOVEMBER    .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .51 

THE  SHEILING        .......        52 

THE  GALLOWS        .......       53 

BIRDS'  NESTS         .......       54 

RAIN    .........       54 

"  HOME  "  .          .          .          .          .          .          -55 

THERE'S  NOTHING  LIKE  THE  SUN    .          .          .          .56 

WHEN  HE  SHOULD  LAUGH       .....       57 

AN  OLD  SONG       .          .          .          .          .          .          -57 

THE  PENNY  WHISTLE    ......        59 

LIGHTS  OUT.          .......        59 

COCK-CROW   ........       61 

WORDS  .          .          .          .          .          .  6 1 

8 


THE  TRUMPET 

RISE  up,  rise  up, 
And,  as  the  trumpet  blowing 
Chases  the  dreams  of  men, 
As  the  dawn  glowing 
The  stars  that  left  unlit 
The  land  and  water, 
Rise  up  and  scatter 
The  dew  that  covers 
The  print  of  last  night's  lovers — 
„     Scatter  it,  scatter  it  ! 

While  you  are  listening 

To  the  clear  horn, 

Forget,  men,  everything 

On  this  earth  newborn, 

Except  that  it  is  lovelier 

Than  any  mysteries. 

Open  your  eyes  to  the  air 

That  has  washed  the  eyes  of  the  stars 

Through  all  the  dewy  night  : 

Up  with  the   light, 

To  the  old  wars  ; 

Arise,  arise  ! 

THE   SIGN-POST 

THE  dim  sea  glints  chill.     The  white  sun  is  shy, 
And  the  skeleton  weeds  and  the  never-dry, 
Rough,  long  grasses  keep  white  with  frost 
At  the  hilltop  by  the  finger-post ; 
The  smoke  of  the  traveller's-joy  is  puffed 
Over  hawthorn  berry  and  hazel  tuft. 

9 


I  read  the  sign.     Which  way  shall  I  go  ? 

A  voice  says  :   You  would  not  have  doubted  so 

At  twenty.     Another  voice  gentle  with  scorn 

Says  :   At  twenty  you  wished  you  had  never  been  born. 

One  hazel  lost  a  leaf  of  gold 
From  a  tuft  at  the  tip,  when  the  first  voice  told 
The  other  he  wished  to  know  what  'twould  be 
To  be  sixty  by  this  same  post.     "  You  shall  see," 
He  laughed — and  I  had  to  join  his  laughter — 
'  You  shall  see  ;  but  either  before  or  after, 
Whatever  happens,  it  must  befall, 
A  mouthful  of  earth  to  remedy  all 
Regrets  and  wishes  shall  freely  be  given  ; 
And  if  there  be  a  flaw  in  that  heaven 
'Twill  be  freedom  to  wish,  and  your  wish  may  be 
To  be  here  or  anywhere  talking  to  me, 
No  matter  what  the  weather,  on  earth, 
At  any  age  between  death  and  birth, — 
To  see  what  day  or  night  can  be, 
The  sun  and  the  frost,  the  land  and  the  sea, 
Summer,  Autumn,  WTinter,  Spring, — 
With  a  poor  man  of  any  sort,  down  to  a  king, 
Standing  upright  out  in  the  air 
Wondering  where  he  shall  journey,  O  where  ?  " 

TEARS 

IT  seems  I  have  no  tears  left.     They  should  have  fallen — 
Their  ghosts,  if  tears  have  ghosts,  did  fall — that  day 
When  twenty  hounds  streamed  by  me,  not  yet  combed 

out 

But  still  all  equals  in  their  rage  of  gladness 

10 


Upon  the  scent,  made  one,  like  a  great  dragon 

In  Blooming  Meadow  that  bends  towards  the  sun 

And  once  bore  hops  :   and  on  that  other  day 

When  I  stepped  out  from  the  double-shadowed  Tower 

Into  an  April  morning,  stirring  and  sweet 

And  warm.     Strange  solitude  was  there  and  silence. 

A  mightier  charm  than  any  in  the  Tower 

Possessed  the  courtyard.     They  were  changing  guard, 

Soldiers  in  line,  young  English  countrymen, 

Fair-haired  and  ruddy,  in  white  tunics.     Drums 

And  fifes  were  playing  "  The  British  Grenadiers  ". 

The  men,  the  music  piercing  that  solitude 

And  silence,  told  me  truths  I  had  not  dreamed, 

And  have  forgotten  since  their  beauty  passed. 


TWO   PEWITS 

UNDER  the  after-sunset  sky 
Two  pewits  sport  and  cry, 
More  white  than  is  the  moon  on  high 
Riding  the  dark  surge  silently  ; 
More  black  than  earth.     Their  cry 
Is  the  one  sound  under  the  sky. 
They  alone  move,  now  low,  now  high, 
And  merrily  they  cry 
To  the  mischievous  Spring  sky, 
Plunging  earthward,  tossing  high, 
Over  the  ghost  who  wonders  why 
So  merrily  they  cry  and  fly, 
Nor  choose  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
While  the  moon>s  quarter  silently 
Rides,  and  earth  rests  as  silently. 
II 


THE   MANOR   FARM 

THE  rock-like  mud  unfroze  a  little  and  rills 

Ran  and  sparkled  down  each  side  of  the  road 

Under  the  catkins  wagging  in  the  hedge. 

But  earth  would  have  her  sleep  out,  spite  of  the  sun  ; 

Nor  did  I  value  that  thin  gilding  beam 

More  than  a  pretty  February  thing 

Till  I  came  down  to  the  old  Manor  Farm, 

And  church  and  yew-tree  opposite,  in  age 

Its  equals  and  in  size.     The  church  and  yew 

And  farmhouse  slept  in  a  Sunday  silentness. 

The  air  raised  not  a  straw.     The  steep  farm  roof, 

With  tiles  duskily  glowing,  entertained 

The  mid-day  sun  ;   and  up  and  down  the  roof 

White  pigeons  nestled.     There  was  no  sound  but  one. 

Three  cart-horses  were  looking  over  a  gate 

Drowsily  through  their  forelocks,  swishing  their  tails 

Against  a  fly,  a  solitary  fly. 

The  Winter's  cheek  flushed  as  if  he  had  drained 
Spring,  Summer,  and  Autumn  at  a  draught 
And  smiled  quietly.     But  'twas  not  Winter — 
Rather  a  season  of  bliss  unchangeable 
Awakened  from  farm  and  church  where  it  had  lain 
Safe  under  tile  and  thatch  for  ages  since 
This  England,  Old  already,  was  called  Merry. 

THE   OWL 

DOWNHILL  I  came,  hungry,  and  yet  not  starved  ; 
Cold,  yet  had  heat  within  me  that  was  proof 
Against  the  North  wind  ;   tired,  yet  so  that  rest 
Had  seemed  the  sweetest  thing  under  a  roof. 
12 


Then  at  the  inn  I  had  food,  fire,  and  rest, 
Knowing  how  hungry,  cold,  and  tired  was  I. 
All  of  the  night  was  quite  barred  out  except 
An  owl's  cry,  a  most  melancholy  cry 

Shaken  out  long  and  clear  upon  the  hill, 
No  merry  note,  nor  cause  of  merriment, 
But  one  telling  me  plain  what  I  escaped 
And  others  could  not,  that  night,  as  in  I  went. 

And  salted  was  my  food,  and  my  repose, 
Salted  and  sobered,  too,  by  the  bird's  voice 
Speaking  for  all  who  lay  under  the  stars, 
Soldiers  and  poor,  unable  to  rejoice. 


SWEDES 

THEY  have  taken  the  gable  from  the  roof  of  clay 
On  the  long  swede  pile.     They  have  let  in  the  sun 
To  the  white  and  gold  and  purple  of  curled  fronds 
Unsunned.     It  is  a  sight  more  tender-gorgeous 
At  the  wood-corner  where  Winter  moans  and  drips 
Than  when,  in  the  Valley  of  the  Tombs  of  Kings, 
A  boy  crawls  down  into  a  Pharaoh's  tomb 
And,  first  of  Christian  men,  beholds  the  mummy, 
God  and  monkey,  chariot  and  throne  and  vase, 
Blue  pottery,  alabaster,  and  gold. 

But  dreamless  long-dead  Amen-hotep  lies. 
This  is  a  dream  of  Winter,  sweet  as  Spring. 


WILL  YOU  COME? 

WILL  you  come  ? 

Will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  ride 

So  late 

At  my  side  ? 

O,  will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  come  ? 
Will  you  come 
If  the  night 
Has  a  moon, 
Full  and  bright  ? 
O,  will  you  come  ? 

Would  you  come  ? 

Would  you  come 

If  the  noon 

Gave  light, 

Not  the  moon  ? 

Beautiful,  would  you  come  i 

Would  you  have  come  ? 

Would  you  have  come 

Without  scorning, 

Had  it  been 

Still  morning  ? 

Beloved,  would  you  have  come  ? 

If  you  come 

Haste  and  come. 

Owls  have  cried  ; 

It  grows  dark 

To  ride. 

Beloved,  beautiful,  come. 

14 


AS   THE  TEAM'S   HEAD-BRASS 

As  the  team's  head-brass  flashed  out  on  the  turn 
The  lovers  disappeared  into  the  wood. 
I  sat  among  the  boughs  of  the  fallen  elm 
That  strewed  an  angle  of  the  fallow,  and 
Watched  the  plough  narrowing  a  yellow  square 
Of  charlock.     Every  time  the  horses  turned 
Instead  of  treading  me  down,  the  ploughman  leaned 
Upon  the  handles  to  say  or  ask  a  word, 
About  the  weather,  next  about  the  war. 
Scraping  the  share  he  faced  towards  the  wood, 
And  screwed  along  the  furrow  till  the  brass  flashed 
Once  more. 

The  blizzard  felled  the  elm  whose  crest 
I  sat  in,  by  a  woodpecker's  round  hole, 
The  ploughman  said.     "  When  will  they  take  it  away  ?  " 
"  When  the  war's  over."     So  the  talk  began — 
One  minute  and  an  interval  of  ten, 
A  minute  more  and  the  same  interval. 
"  Have  you  been    out  ?  "     "  No."     "  And  don't  want 

to,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  only  come  back  again,  I  should. 
I  could  spare  an  arm.     I  shouldn't  want  to  lose 
A  leg.     If  I  should  lose  my  head,  why,  so, 
I  should  want  nothing  more.  .  .  .  Have  many  gone 
From    here  ?  "     "  Yes."     "  Many    lost  ?  "     "  Yes  :    a 

good  few. 

Only  two  teams  work  on  the  farm  this  year. 
One  of  my  mates  is  dead.     The  second  day 
In  France  they  killed  him.     It  was  back  in  March, 
The  very  night  of  the  blizzard,  too.     Now  if 
He  had  stayed  here  we  should  have  moved  the  tree." 

15 


"  And  I  should  not  have  sat  here.     Everything 
Would  have  been  different.     For  it  would  have  been 
Another  world."     "  Ay,  and  a  better,  though 
If  we  could  see  all  all  might  seem  good."     Then 
The  lovers  came  out  of  the  wood  again  : 
The  horses  started  and  for  the  last  time 
I  watched  the  clods  crumble  and  topple  over 
After  the  ploughshare  and  the  stumbling  team. 


THAW 

OVER  the  land  freckled  with  snow  half-thawed 
The  speculating  rooks  at  their  nests  cawed 
And  saw  from  elm-tops,  delicate  as  flower  of  grass, 
What  we  below  could  not  see,  Winter  pass. 


INTERVAL 

GONE  the  wild  day  : 
A  wilder  night 
Coming  makes  way 
For.  brief  twilight. 

Where  the  firm  soaked  road 
Mounts  and  is  lost 
In  the  high  beech-wood 
It  shines  almost. 

The  beeches  keep 
A  stormy  rest, 
Breathing  deep 
Of  wind  from  the  west. 
16 


The  wood  is  black,. 
With  a  misty  steam. 
Above,  the  cloud  pack 
Breaks  for  one  gleam. 

But  the  woodman's  cot 
By  the  ivied  trees 
Awakens  not 
To  light  or  breeze. 

It  smokes  aloft 
Unwavering  : 
It  hunches  soft 
Under  storm's  wing. 

It  has  no  care 
For  gleam  or  gloom  : 
It  stays  there 
While  I  shall  roam, 

Die,  and  forget 
The  hill  of  trees, 
The  gleam,  the  wet, 
This  roaring  peace. 


LIKE  THE  TOUCH   OF   RAIN 

LIKE  the  touch  of  rain  she  was 
On  a  man's  flesh  and  hair  and  eyes 
When  the  joy  of  walking  thus 
Has  taken  him  by  surprise  : 

17 


With  the  love  of  the  storm  he  burns, 
He  sings,  he  laughs,  well  I  know  how; 
But  forgets  when  he  returns 
As  I  shall  not  forget  her  "  Go  now." 

Those  two  words  shut  a  door 
Between  me  and  the  blessed  rain 
That  was  never  shut  before 
And  will  not  open  again. 

THE   PATH 

RUNNING  along  a  bank,  a  parapet 
That  saves  from  the  precipitous  wood  below 
The  level  road,  there  is  a  path.     It  serves 
Children  for  looking  down  the  long  smooth  steep, 
Between  the  legs  of  beech  and  yew,  to  where 
A  fallen  tree  checks  the  sight  :   while  men  and  women 
Content  themselves  with  the  road  and  what  they  see 
Over  the  bank,  and  what  the  children  tell. 
The  path,  winding  like  silver,  trickles  on, 
Bordered  and  even  invaded  by  thinnest  moss 
That  tries  to  cover  roots  and  crumbling  chalk 
With  gold,  olive,  and  emerald,  but  in  vain. 
The  children  wear  it.     They  have  flattened  the  bank 
On  top,  and  silvered  it  between  the  moss 
With  the  current  of  their  feet,  year  after  year. 
But  the  road  is  houseless,  and  leads  not  to  school. 
To  see  a  child  is  rare  there,  and  the  eye 
Has  but  the  road,  the  wood  that  overhangs 
And  underyawns  it,  and  the  path  that  looks 
As  if  it  led  on  to  some  legendary 
Or  fancied  place  where  men  have  wished  to  go 
And  stay  ;  till,,  sudden,  it  ends  where  the  wood  ends. 

18 


THE  COMBE 

THE  Combe  was  ever  dark,  ancient  and  dark. 

Its  mouth  is  stopped  with  bramble,  thorn,  and  briar  ; 

And  no  one  scrambles  over  the  sliding  chalk 

By  beech  and  yew  and  perishing  juniper 

Down  the  half  precipices  of  its  sides,  with  roots 

And  rabbit  holes  for  steps.     The  sun  of  Winter, 

The  moon  of  Summer,  and  all  the  singing  birds 

Except  the  missel-thrush  that  loves  juniper, 

Are  quite  shut  out.     But  far  more  ancient  and  dark 

The  Combe  looks  since  they  killed  the  badger  there, 

Dug  him  out  and  gave  him  to  the  hounds, 

That  most  ancient  Briton  of  English  beasts. 


IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  BY  CHANCE 

IF  I  should  ever  by  chance  grow  rich 

I'll  buy  Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo,  and  Lapwater, 

And  let  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 

The  rent  I  shall  ask  of  her  will  be  only 

Each  year's  first  violets,  white  and  lonely, 

The  first  primroses  and  orchises — 

She  must  find  them  before  I  do,  that  is. 

But  if  she  finds  a  blossom  on  furze 

Without  rent  they  shall  all  for  ever  be  hers, 

Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo  and  Lapwater, — 

I  shall  give  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 


WHAT  SHALL   I   GIVE  ?  . 

WHAT  shall  I  give  my  daughter  the  younger 

More  than  will  keep  her  from  cold  and  hunger  ? 

I  shall  not  give  her  anything. 

If  she  shared  South  Weald  and  Havering, 

Their  acres,  the  two  brooks  running  between, 

Paine's  Brook  and  Weald  Brook, 

With  pewit,  woodpecker,  swan,  and  rook, 

She  would  be  no  richer  than  the  queen 

Who  once  on  a  time  sat  in  Havering  Bower 

Alone,  with  the  shadows,  pleasure  and  power. 

She  could  do  no  more  with  Samarcand, 

Or  the  mountains  of  a  mountain  land 

And  its  far  white  house  above  cottages 

Like  Venus  above  the  Pleiades. 

Her  small  hands  I  would  not  cumber 

With  so  many  acres  and  their  lumber, 

But  leave  her  Steep  and  her  own  world 

And  her  spectacled  self  with  hair  uncurled, 

Wanting  a  thousand  little  things 

That  time  without  contentment  brings. 

IF   I   WERE  TO   OWN 

IF  I  were  to  own  this  countryside 

As  far  as  a  man  in  a  day  could  ride, 

And  the  Tyes  were  mine  for  giving  or  letting, — 

Wingle  Tye  and  Margaretting 

Tye, — and  Skreens,  Gooshays,  and  Cockerells, 

Shellow,  Rochetts,  Bandish,  and  Pickerells, 

Martins,  Lambkins,  and  Lillyputs, 

Their  copses,  ponds,  roads,  and  ruts, 

20 


Fields  where  plough-horses  steam  and  plovers 

Fling  and  whimper,  hedges  that  lovers 

Love,  and  orchards,  shrubberies,  walls 

Where  the  sun  untroubled  by  north  wind  falls, 

And  single  trees  where  the  thrush  sings  well 

His  proverbs  untranslatable, 

I  would  give  them  all  to  my  son 

If  he  would  let  me  any  one 

For  a  song,  a  blackbird's  song,  at  dawn. 

He  should  have  no  more,  till  on  my  lawn 

Never  a  one  was  left,  because  I 

Had  shot  them  to  put  them  into  a  pie, — 

His  Essex  blackbirds,  every  one, 

And  I  was  left  old  and  alone. 

Then  unless  I  could  pay,  for  rent,  a  song 

As  sweet  as  a  blackbird's,  and  as  long — 

No  more — he  should  have  the  house,  not  I : 

Margaretting  or  Wingle  Tye, 

Or  it  might  be  Skreens,  Gooshays,  or  Cockerells, 

Shellow,  Rochetts,  Bandish,  or  Pickerells, 

Martins,  Lambkins,  or  Lillyputs, 

Should  be  his  till  the  cart  tracks  had  no  ruts. 

AND   YOU,   HELEN 

AND  you,  Helen,  what  should  I  give  you  ? 
So  many  things  I  would  give  you 
Had  I  an  infinite  great  store 
Offered  me  and  I  stood  before 
To  choose.     I  would  give  you  youth, 
All  kinds  of  loveliness  and  truth, 
A  clear  eye  as  good  as  mine, 
Lands,  waters,  flowers,  wine, 
21 


As  many  children  as  your  heart    • 

Might  wish  for,  a  far  better  art 

Than  mine  can  be,  all  you  have  lost 

Upon  the  travelling  waters  tossed, 

Or  given  to  me.     If  I  could  choose 

Freely  in  that  great  treasure-house 

Anything  from  any  shelf, 

I  would  give  you  back  yourself, 

And  power  to  discriminate 

What  you  want  and  want  it  not  too  late, 

Many  fair  days  free  from  care 

And  heart  to  enjoy  both  foul  and  fair, 

And  myself,  too,  if  I  could  find 

Where  it  lay  hidden  and  it  proved  kind. 


WHEN   FIRST 

WHEN  first  I  came  here  I  had  hope, 
Hope  for  I  knew  not  what.     Fast  beat 
My  heart  at  sight  of  the  tall  slope 
Or  grass  and  yews,  as  if  my  feet 

Only  by  scaling  its  steps  of  chalk 
Would  see  something  no  other  hill 
Ever  disclosed.    And  now  I  walk 
Down  it  the  last  time.     Never  will 

My  heart  beat  so  again  at  sight 
Of  any  hill  although  as  fair 
And  loftier.     For  infinite 
The  change,  late  unperceived,  this  year, 
22 


The  twelfth,  suddenly,  shows  me  plain. 
Hope  now, — not  health,  nor  cheerfulness, 
Since  they  can  come  and  go  again, 
As  often  one  brief  hour  witnesses, — 

Just  hope  has  gone  for  ever.     Perhaps 
I  may  love  other  hills  yet  more 
Than  this  :   the  future  and  the  maps 
Hide  something  I  was  waiting  for. 

One  thing  I  know,  that  love  with  chance 
And  use  and  time  and  necessity 
Will  grow,  and  louder  the  heart's  dance 
At  parting  than  at  meeting  be. 


HEAD   AND   BOTTLE 

THE  downs  will  lose  the  sun,  white  alyssum 

Lose  the  bees'  hum  ; 

But  head  and  bottle  tilted  back  in  the  cart 

Will  never  part 

Till  I  am  cold  as  midnight  and  all  my  hours 

Are  beeless  flowers. 

He  neither  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  smells,  nor  thinks, 

But  only  drinks, 

Quiet  in  the  yard  where  tree  trunks  do  not  lie 

More  quietly. 


AFTER   YOU   SPEAK      • 

AFTER  you  speak 

And  what  you  meant 

Is  plain, 

My  eyes 

Meet  yours  that  mean — 

With  your  cheeks  and  hair — 

Something  more  wise, 

More  dark, 

And  far  different. 

Even  so  the  lark 

Loves  dust 

And  nestles  in  it 

The  minute 

Before  he  must 

Soar  in  lone  flight 

So  far, 

Like  a  black  star 

He  seems — 

A  mote 

Of  singing  dust 

Afloat 

Above, 

That  dreams 

And  sheds  no  light. 

I  know  your  lust 

Is  love. 

SOWING 

IT  was  a  perfect  day 
For  sowing  ;   just 
As  sweet  and  dry  was  the  ground 
As  tobacco-dust. 
24 


I  tasted  deep  the  hour 
Between  the  far 
Owl's  chuckling  first  soft  cry 
And  the  first  star. 

A  long  stretched  hour  it  was 
Nothing  undone 
Remained  ;   the  early  seeds 
All  safely  sown. 

And  now,  hark  at  the  rain, 
Windless  and  light, 
Half  a  kiss,  half  a  tear, 
Saying  good-night. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  WALKED 

WHEN  we  two  walked  in  Lent 
We  imagined  that  happiness 
Was  something  different 
And  this  was  something  less. 

But  happy  were  we  to  hide 
Our  happiness,  not  as  they  were 
Who  acted  in  their  pride 
Juno  and  Jupiter  : 

For  the  Gods  in  their  jealousy 
Murdered  that  wife  and  man, 
And  we  that  were  wise  live  free 
To  recall  our  happiness  then. 


IN  MEMORIAM  (Easter,  1915) 

THE  flowers  left  thick  at  nightfall  in  the  wood 

This  Eastertide  call  into  mind  the  men, 

Now  far  from  home,  who,  with  their  sweethearts,  should 

Have  gathered  them  and  will  do  never  again. 


FIFTY   FAGGOTS 

THERE  they  stand,  on  their  ends,  the  fifty  faggots 

That  once  were  underwood  of  hazel  and  ash 

In  Jenny  Pinks's  Copse.     Now,  by  the  hedge 

Close  packed,  they  make  a  thicket  fancy  alone 

Can  creep  through  with  the  mouse  and  wren.     Next 

Spring 

A  blackbird  or  a  robin  will  nest  there, 
Accustomed  to  them,  thinking  they  will  remain 
Whatever  is  for  ever  to  a  bird  : 
This  Spring  it  is  too  late  ;  the  swift  has  come. 
Twas  a  hot  day  for  carrying  them  up  : 
Better  they  will  never  warm  me,  though  they  must 
Light  several  Winters'  fires.     Before  they  are  done 
The  war  will  have  ended,  many  other  things 
Have  ended,  maybe,  that  I  can  no  more 
Foresee  or  more  control  than  robin  and  wren. 


WOMEN  HE  LIKED 

WOMEN  he  liked,  did  shovel-bearded  Bob, 
Old  Farmer  Hayward  of  the  Heath,  but  he 
Loved  horses.     He  himself  was  like  a  cob, 
And  leather-coloured.     Also  he  loved  a  tree. 
26 


For  the  life  in  them  he  loved  most  living  things, 
But  a  tree  chiefly.     All  along  the  lane 
He  planted  elms  where  now  the  stormcock  sings 
That  travellers  hear  from  the  slow-climbing  train 

Till  then  the  track  had  never  had  a  name 

For  all  its  thicket  and  the  nightingales 

That  should  have  earned  it.     No  one  was  to  blame. 

To  name  a  thing  beloved  man  sometimes  fails. 

Many  years  since,  Bob  Hayward  died,  and  now 
None  passes  there  because  the  mist  and  the  rain 
Out  of  the  elms  have  turned  the  lane  to  slough 
And  gloom,  the  name  alone  survives,  Bob's  Lane. 

EARLY   ONE   MORNING 

EARLY  one  morning  in  May  I  set  out, 

And  nobody  I  knew  was  about. 
I'm  bound  away  for  ever, 
Away  somewhere,  away  for  ever. 

There  was  no  wind  to  trouble  the  weathercocks. 
I  had  burnt  my  letters  and  darned  my  socks. 

No  one  knew  I  was  going  away, 

I  thought  myself  I  should  come  back  some  day. 

I  heard  the  brook  through  the  town  gardens  run. 
0  sweet  was  the  mud  turned  to  dust  by  the  sun. 

A  gate  banged  in  a  fence  and  banged  in  my  head. 
"  A  fine  morning,  sir/'  a  shepherd  said. 
27 


I  couid  not  return  from  my  liberty, 

To  my  youth  and  my  love  and  my  misery. 

The  past  is  the  only  dead  thing  that  smells  sweet, 
The  only  sweet  thing  that  is  not  also  fleet. 
I'm  bound  away  for  ever, 
Away  somewhere,  away  for  ever. 

THE   CHERRY  TREES 

THE  cherry  trees  bend  over  and  are  shedding 
On  the  old  road  where  all  that  passed  are  dead, 
Their  petals,  strewing  the  grass  as  for  a  wedding 
This  early  May  morn  when  there  is  none  to  wed. 

IT   RAINS 

IT  rains,  and  nothing  stirs  within  the  fence 
Anywhere  through  the  orchard's  untrodden,  dense 
Forest  of  parsley.     The  great  diamonds 
Of  rain  on  the  grassblades  there  is  none  to  break, 
Or  the  fallen  petals  further  down  to  shake. 

And  I  am  nearly  as  happy  as  possible 
To  search  the  wilderness  in  vain  though  well, 
To  think  of  two  walking,  kissing  there, 
Drenched,  yet  forgetting  the  kisses  of  the  rain  : 
Sad,  too,  to  think  that  never,  never  again, 

Unless  alone,  so  happy  shall  I  walk 
In  the  rain.     When  I  turn  away,  on  its  fine  stalk 
Twilight  has  fined  to  naught,  the  parsley  flower 
Figures,  suspended  still  and  ghostly  white, 
The  past  hovering  as  it  revisits  the  light. 
28 


THE   HUXTER 

HE  has  a  hump  like  an  ape  on  his  back  ; 
He  has  of  money  a  plentiful  lack  ; 
And  but  for  a  gay  coat  of  double  his  girth 
There  is  not  a  plainer  thing  on  the  earth 
This  fine  May  morning. 

But  the  huxter  has  a  bottle  of  beer  ; 
He  drives  a  cart  and  his  wife  sits  near 
Who  does  not  heed  his  lack  or  his  hump  ; 
And  they  laugh  as  down  the  lane  they  bump 
This  fine  May  morning. 

A   GENTLEMAN 

"  HE  has  robbed  two  clubs.     The  judge  at  Salisbury 

Can't  give  him  more  than  he  undoubtedly 

Deserves.     The  scoundrel !     Look  at  his  photograph  ! 

A  lady-killer  !     Hanging's  too  good  by  half 

For  such  as  he."     So  said  the  stranger,  one 

With  crimes  yet  undiscovered  or  undone. 

But  at  the  inn  the  Gipsy  dame  began  : 

"  Now  he  was  what  I  call  a  gentleman. 

He  went  along  with  Carrie,  and  when  she 

Had  a  baby  he  paid  up  so  readily 

His  half  a  crown.     Just  like  him.     A  crown 'd  have 

been 

More  like  him.     For  I  never  knew  him  mean. 
Oh  !   but  he  was  such  a  nice  gentleman.     Oh  ! 
Last  time  we  met  he  said  if  me  and  Joe 
Was  anywhere  near  we  must  be  sure  and  call. 
He  put  his  arms  around  our  Amos  all 
As  if  he  were  his  own  son.     I  pray  God 
Save  him  from  justice  !     Nicer  man  never  trod." 
29 


THE  BRIDGE 

I  HAVE  come  a  long  way  to-day  : 

On  a  strange  bridge  alone, 

Remembering  friends,  old  friends, 

I  rest,  without  smile  or  moan, 

As  they  remember  me  without  smile  or  moan 

All  are  behind,  the  kind 
And  the  unkind  too,  no  more 
To-night  than  a  dream.     The  stream 
Runs  softly  yet  drowns  the  Past, 

The  dark-lit  stream  has  drowned  the  Future  and  the 
Past. 

No  traveller  has  rest  more  blest 
Than  this  moment  brief  between 
Two  lives,  when  the  Night's  first  lights 
And  shades  hide  what  has  never  been, 
Things  goodlier,  lovelier,  dearer,  than  will  be  or  have 
been. 

LOB 

AT  hawthorn-time  in  Wiltshire  travelling 
In  search  of  something  chance  would  never  bring, 
An  old  man's  face,  by  life  and  weather  cut 
And  coloured, — rough,  brown,  sweet  as  any  nut, — 
A  land  face,  sea-blue-eyed, — hung  in  my  mind 
When  I  had  left  him  many  a  mile  behind. 
All  he  said  was  :   "  Nobody  can't  stop  'ee.     It's 
A  footpath,  right  enough.     You  see  those  bits 
Of  mounds — that's  where  they  opened  up  the  barrows 
Sixty  years  since,  while  I  was  scaring  sparrows. 

30 


They  thought  as  there  was  something  to  find  there, 
But  couldn't  find  it,  by  digging,  anywhere." 

To  turn  back  then  and  seek  him,  where  was  the  use  ? 
There  were  three  Manningfords, — Abbots,  Bohun,  and 

Bruce  : 

And  whether  Alton,  not  Manningford,  it  was, 
My  memory  could  not  decide,  because 
There  was  both  Alton  Barnes  and  Alton  Priors. 
All  had  their  churches,  graveyards,  farms,  and  byres, 
Lurking  to  one  side  up  the  paths  and  lanes, 
Seldom  well  seen  except  by  aeroplanes  ; 
And  when  bells  rang,  or  pigs  squealed,  or  cocks  crowed, 
Then  only  heard.     Ages  ago  the  road 
Approached.     The  people  stood  and  looked  and  turned, 
Nor  asked  it  to  come  nearer,  nor  yet  learned 
To  move  out  there  and  dwell  in  all  men's  dust. 
And  yet  withal  they  shot  the  weathercock,  just 
Because  'twas  he  crowed  out  of  tune,  they  said  : 
So  now  the  copper  weathercock  is  dead. 
If  they  had  reaped  their  dandelions  and  sold 
Them  fairly,  they  could  have  afforded  gold. 

Many  years  passed,  and  I  went  back  again 

Among  those  villages,  and  looked  for  men 

Who  might  have  known  my  ancient.     He  himself 

Had  long  been  dead  or  laid  upon  the  shelf, 

I  thought.     One  man  I  asked  about  him  roared 

At  my  description  :  "  Tis  old  Bottlesford 

He  means,  Bill."     But  another  said  :  "  Of  course, 

It  was  Jack  Button  up  at  the  White  Horse. 

He's  dead,  sir,  these  three  years."     This  lasted  till 

A  girl  proposed  Walker  of  Walker's  Hill, 


"  Old  Adam  Walker.     Adam's  Point  you'll  see 
Marked  on  the  maps." 


"  That  was  her  roguery," 
The  next  man  said.     He  was  a  squire's  son 
Who  loved  wild  bird  and  beast,  and  dog  and  gun 
For  killing  them.     He  had  loved  them  from  his  birth 
One  with  another,  as  he  loved  the  earth. 
"  The  man  may  be  like  Button,  or  Walker,  or 
Like  Bottlesford,  that  you  want,  but  far  more 
He  sounds  like  one  I  saw  when  I  was  a  child. 
I  could  almost  swear  to  him.     The  man  was  wild 
And  wandered.     His  home  was  where  he  was  free. 
Everybody  has  met  one  such  man  as  he. 
Does  he  keep  clear  old  paths  that  no  one  uses 
But  once  a  life-time  when  he  loves  or  muses  ? 
He  is  English  as  this  gate,  these  flowers,  this  mire. 
And  when  at  eight  years  old  Lob-lie-by-the-fire 
Came  in  my  books,  this  was  the  man  I  saw. 
He  has  been  in  England  as  long  as  dove  and  daw, 
Calling  the  wild  cherry  tree  the  merry  tree, 
The  rose  campion  Bridget-in-her-bravery  ; 
And  in  a  tender  mood  he,  as  I  guess, 
Christened  one  flower  Love-in-idleness, 
And  while  he  walked  from  Exeter  to  Leeds 
One  April  called  all  cuckoo-flowers  Milkmaids. 
From  him  old  herbal  Gerard  learnt,  as  a  boy, 
To  name  wild  clematis  the  Traveller's-joy. 
Our  blackbirds  sang  no  English  till  his  ear 
Told  him  they  called  his  Jan  Toy  '  Pretty  dear.' 
(She  was  Jan  Toy  the  Lucky,  who,  having  lost 
A  shilling,  and  found  a  penny  loaf,  rejoiced.) 

32 


For  reasons  of  his  own  to  him  the  wren 
Is  Jenny  Footer.     Before  all  other  men 
Twas  he  first  called  the  Hog's  Back  the  Hog's  Back. 
That  Mother  Bunch's  Buttocks  should  not  lack 
Their  name  was  his  care.     He  too  could  explain 
Totteridge  and  Totterdown  and  Juggler's  Lane  : 
He  knows,  if  anyone.     Why  Tumbling  Bay, 
Inland  in  Kent,  is  called  so,  he  might  say. 

"  But  little  he  says  compared  with  what  he  does. 

If  ever  a  sage  troubles  him  he  will  buzz 

Like  a  beehive  to  conclude  the  tedious  fray  : 

And  the  sage,  who  knows  all  languages,  runs  away. 

Yet  Lob  has  thirteen  hundred  names  for  a  fool, 

And  though  he  never  could  spare  time  for  school 

To  unteach  what  the  fox  so  well  expressed, 

On  biting  the  cock's  head  off, — Quietness  is  best, — 

He  can  talk  quite  as  well  as  anyone 

After  his  thinking  is  forgot  and  done. 

He  first  of  all  told  someone  else's  wife, 

For  a  farthing  she'd  skin  a  flint  and  spoil  a  knife 

Worth  sixpence  skinning  it.     She  heard  him  speak  : 

'  She  had  a  face  as  long  as  a  wet  week  ' 

Said  he,  telling  the  tale  in  after  years. 

With  blue  smock  and  with  gold  rings  in  his  ears, 

Sometimes  he  is  a  pedlar,  not  too  poor 

To  keep  his  wit.     This  is  tall  Tom  that  bore 

The  logs  in,  and  with  Shakespeare  in  the  hall 

Once  talked,  when  icicles  hung  by  the  wall. 

As  Herne  the  Hunter  he  has  known  hard  times. 

On  sleepless  nights  he  made  up  weather  rhymes 

Which  others  spoilt.     And,  Hob  being  then  his  name, 

He  kept  the  hog  that  thought  the  butcher  came 

33  3 


To  bring  his  breakfast.    '  You  thought  wrong,'  said  Hob. 

When  there  were  kings  in  Kent  this  very  Lob, 

Whose  sheep  grew  fat  and  he  himself  grew  merry, 

Wedded  the  king's  daughter  of  Canterbury  ; 

For  he  alone,  unlike  squire,  lord,  and  king, 

Watched  a  night  by  her  without  slumbering  ; 

He  kept  both  waking.     When  he  was  but  a  lad 

He  won  a  rich  man's  heiress,  deaf,  dumb,  and  sad, 

By  rousing  her  to  laugh  at  him.     He  carried 

His  donkey  on  his  back.     So  they  were  married. 

And  while  he  was  a  little  cobbler's  boy 

He  tricked  the  giant  coming  to  destroy 

Shrewsbury  by  flood.     '  And  how  far  is  it  yet  ?  ' 

The  giant  asked  in  passing.     '  I  forget  ; 

But  see  these  shoes  I've  worn  out  on  the  road 

And  we're  not  there  yet.'     He  emptied  out  his  load 

Of  shoes  for  mending.     The  giant  let  fall  from  his  spade 

The  earth  for  damming  Severn,  and  thus  made 

The  Wrekin  hill ;   and  little  Ercall  hill 

Rose  where  the  giant  scraped  his  boots.     While  still 

So  young,  our  Jack  was  chief  of  Gotham's  sages. 

But  long  before  he  could  have  been  wise,  ages 

Earlier  than  this,  while  he  grew  thick  and  strong 

And  ate  his  bacon,  or,  at  times,  sang  a  song 

And  merely  smelt  it,  as  Jack  the  giant-killer 

He  made  a  name.     He  too  ground  up  the  miller, 

The  Yorkshireman  who  ground  men's  bones  for  flour. 

"  Do  you  believe  Jack  dead  before  his  hour  ? 
Or  that  his  name  is  Walker,  or  Bottlesford, 
Or  Button,  a  mere  clown,  or  squire,  or  lord  ? 
The  man  you  saw, — Lob-lie-by-the-fire,  Jack  Cade, 
Jack  Smith,  Jack  Moon,  poor  Jack  of  every  trade, 

34 


Young  Jack,  or  old  Jack,  or  Jack  What-d'ye-call, 
JacK-in-the-hedge,  or  Robin-run-by-the-wall, 
Robin  Hood,  Ragged  Robin,  lazy  Bob, 
One  of  the  lords  of  No  Man's  Land,  good  Lob, — 
Although  he  was  seen  dying  at  Waterloo, 
Hastings,  Agincourt,  and  Sedgemoor  too, — 
Lives  yet.     He  never  will  admit  he  is  dead 
Till  millers  cease  to  grind  men's  bones  for  bread, 
Not  till  our  weathercock  crows  once  again 
And  I  remove  my  house  out  of  the  lane 
On  to  the  road."     With  this  he  disappeared 
In  hazel  and  thorn  tangled  with  old-man's-beard. 
But  one  glimpse  of  his  back,  as  there  he  stood, 
Choosing  his  way,  proved  him  of  old  Jack's  blood 
Young  Jack  perhaps,  and  now  a  Wiltshireman 
As  he  has  oft  been  since  his  days  began. 

BRIGHT  CLOUDS 

BRIGHT  clouds  of  may 

Shade  half  the  pond. 

Beyond, 

All  but  one  bay 

Of  emerald 

Tall  reeds 

Like  criss-cross  bayonets 

Where  a  bird  once  called, 

Lies  bright  as  the  sun. 

No  one  heeds. 

The  light  wind  frets 

And  drifts  the  scum 

Of  may-blossom. 

Till  the  moorhen  calls 

Again 

35  3* 


Naught's  to  be  done 
By  birds  or  men. 
Still  the  may  falls. 


THE  CLOUDS  THAT  ARE  SO   LIGHT 

THE  clouds  that  are  so  light, 
Beautiful,  swift  and  bright, 
Cast  shadows  on  field  and  park 
Of  the  earth  that  is  so  dark, 


And  even  so  now,  light  one  ! 
Beautiful,  swift  and  bright  one  ! 
You  let  fall  on  a  heart  that  was  dark, 
Unillumined,  a  deeper  mark. 

But  clouds  would  have,  without  earth 
To  shadow,  far  less  worth  : 
Away  from  your  shadow  on  me 
Your  beauty  less  would  be, 

And  if  it  still  be  treasured 
An  age  hence,  it  shall  be  measured 
By  this  small  dark  spot 
Without  which  it  were  not. 


SOME   EYES   CONDEMN 

SOME  eyes  condemn  the  earth  they  gaze  upon  : 
Some  wait  patiently  till  they  know  far  more 
Than  earth  can  tell  them  :   some  laugh  at  the  whole 
As  folly  of  another's  making  :  one 

36 


I  knew  that  laughed  because  he  saw,  from  core 
To  rind,  not  one  thing  worth  the  laugh  his  soul 
Had  ready  at  waking  :   some  eyes  have  begun 
With  laughing  ;   some  stand  startled  at  the  door. 

Others,  too,  I  have  seen  rest,  question,  roll, 

Dance,    shoot.     And    many    I    have    loved    watching. 

Some 

I  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  till  they  turned 
And  loving  died.     I  had  not  found  my  goal. 
But  thinking  of  your  eyes,  dear,  I  become 
Dumb  :  for  they  flamed,  and  it  was  me  they  burned. 


MAY   23 

THERE  never  was  a  finer  day, 

And  never  will  be  while  May  is  May,— 

The  third,  and  not  the  last  of  its  kind  ; 

But  though  fair  and  clear  the  two  behind 

Seemed  pursued  by  tempests  overpast ; 

And  the  morrow  with  fear  that  it  could  not  last 

Was  spoiled.     To-day  ere  the  stones  were  warm 

Five  minutes  of  thunderstorm 

Dashed  it  with  rain,  as  if  to  secure, 

By  one  tear,  its  beauty  the  luck  to  endure. 

At  mid-day  then  along  the  lane 

Old  Jack  Noman  appeared  again, 

Jaunty  and  old,  crooked  and  tall, 

And  stopped  and  grinned  at  me  over  the  wall, 

With  a  cowslip  bunch  in  his  button-hole 

And  one  in  his  cap.     Who  could  say  if  his  roll 

37 


Came  from  flints  in  the  road,  the  weather,  or  ale  ? 

He  was  welcome  as  the  nightingale. 

Not  an  hour  of  the  sun  had  been  wasted  on  Jack. 

"  I've  got  my  Indian  complexion  back  " 

Said  he.     He  was  tanned  like  a  harvester, 

Like  his  short  clay  pipe,  like  the  leaf  and  bur 

That  clung  to  his  coat  from  last  night's  bed, 

Like  the  ploughland  crumbling  red. 

Fairer  flowers  were  none  on  the  earth 

Than  his  cowslips  wet  with  the  dew  of  their  birth, 

Or  fresher  leaves  than  the  cress  in  his  basket. 

"  Where  did  they  come  from,  Jack  ?  "     "  Don't  ask  it. 

And  you'll  be  told  no  lies."     "  Very  well  : 

Then  I  can't  buy."     "  I  don't  want  to  sell. 

Take  them  and  these  flowers,  too,  free. 

Perhaps  you  have  something  to  give  me  ? 

Wait  till  next  time.     The  better  the  day  .  .  . 

The  Lord  couldn't  make  a  better,  I  say  ,' 

If  he  could,  he  never  has  done." 

So  off  went  Jack  with  his  roll-walk-run, 

Leaving  his  cresses  from  Oakshott  rill 

And  his  cowslips  from  Wheatham  hill. 

Twas  the  first  day  that  the  midges  bit  ; 
But  though  they  bit  me,  I  was  glad  of  it  : 
Of  the  dust  in  my  face,  too,  I  was  glad. 
Spring  could  do  nothing  to  make  me  sad. 
Bluebells  hid  all  the  ruts  in  the  copse. 
The  elm  seeds  lay  in  the  road  like  hops, 
That  fine  day,  May  the  twenty-third, 
The  day  Jack  Noman  disappeared. 


THE   GLORY 

THE  glory  of  the  beauty  of  the  morning, — 
The  cuckoo  crying  over  the  untouched  dew  ; 
The  blackbird  that  has  found  it,  and  the  dove 
That  tempts  me  on  to  something  sweeter  than  love  ; 
White  clouds  ranged  even  and  fair  as  new-mown  hay  ; 
The  heat,  the  stir,  the  sublime  vacancy 
Of  sky  and  meadow  and  forest  and  my  own  heart  : — 
The  glory  invites  me,  yet  it  leaves  me  scorning 
All  I  can  ever  do,  all  I  can  be, 
Beside  the  lovely  of  motion,  shape,  and  hue, 
The  happiness  I  fancy  fit  to  dwell 
[n  beauty's  presence.     Shall  I  now  this  day 
Begin  to  seek  as  far  as  heaven,  as  hel], 
kVisdom  or  strength  to  match  this  beauty,  start 
Vnd  tread  the  pale  dust  pitted  with  small  dark  drops, 
in  hope  to  find  whatever  it  is  I  seek, 
Hearkening  to  short-lived  happy-seeming  things 
That  we  know  naught  of,  in  the  hazel  copse  ? 
Or  must  I  be  content  with  discontent 
As  larks  and  swallows  are  perhaps  with  wings  ? 
And  shall  I  ask  at  the  day's  end  once  more 
What  beauty  is,  and  what  I  can  have  meant 
By  happiness  ?     And  shall  I  let  all  go, 
Glad,  weary,  or  both  ?     Or  shall  I  perhaps  know 
That  I  was  happy  oft  and  oft  before, 
Awhile  forgetting  how  I  am  fast  pent, 
How  dreary-swift,  with  naught  to  travel  to, 
Is  Time  ?     I  cannot  bite  the  day  to  the  core. 


39 


MELANCHOLY 

THE  rain  and  wind,  the  rain  and  wind,  raved  endlessly. 
On  me  the  Summer  storm,  and  fever,  and  melancholy 
Wrought  magic,  so  that  if  I  feared  the  solitude 
Far  more  I  feared  all  company  :   too  sharp,  too  rude, 
Had  been  the  wisest  or  the  dearest  human  voice. 
What  I  desired  I  knew  not,  but  whate'er  my  choice 
Vain  it  must  be,  I  knew.     Yet  naught  did  my  despair 
But  sweeten  the  strange  sweetness,  while  through  the 

wild  air 

All  day  long  I  heard  a  distant  cuckoo  calling 
And,  soft  as  dulcimers,  sounds  of  near  water  falling, 
And,  softer,  and  remote  as  if  in  history, 
Rumours  of  what  had  touched  my  friends,  my  foes, 

or  me. 

ADLESTROP 

YES.     I  remember  Adlestrop — 
The  name,  because  one  afternoon 
Of  heat  the  express-train  drew  up  there 
Unwontedly.     It  was  late  June. 

The  steam  hissed.     Someone  cleared  his  throat. 

No  one  left  and  no  one  came 

On  the  bare  platform.     What  I  saw 

Was  Adlestrop — only  the  name 

And  willows,  willow-herb,  and  grass, 
And  meadowsweet,  and  haycocks  dry, 
No  whit  less  still  and  lonely  fair 
Than  the  high  cloudlets  in  the  sky. 
40 


And  for  that  minute  a  blackbird  sang 
Close  by,  and  round  him,  mistier, 
Farther  and  farther,  all  the  birds 
Of  Oxfordshire  and  Gloucestershire. 


THE   GREEN   ROADS 

THE  green  roads  that  end  in  the  forest 

Are  strewn  with  white  goose  feathers  this  June, 

Like  marks  left  behind  by  some  one  gone  to  the  forest 
To  show  his  track.     But  he  has  never  come  back. 

Down  each  green  road  a  cottage  looks  at  the  forest. 
Round  one  the  nettle  towers  ;  two  are  bathed  in  flowers. 

An  old  man  along  the  green  road  to  the  forest 
Strays  from  one,  from  another  a  child  alone. 

In  the  thicket  bordering  the  forest, 
All  day  long  a  thrush  twiddles  his  song. 

It  is  old,  but  the  trees  are  young  in  the  forest, 
All  but  one  like  a  castle  keep,  in  the  middle  deep. 

That  oak  saw  the  ages  pass  in  the  forest  : 
They  were  a  host,  but  their  memories  are  lost, 

For  the  tree  is  dead  :   all  things  forget  the  forest 
Excepting  perhaps  me,  when  now  I  see 

The  old  man,  the  child,  the  goose  feathers  at  the  edge 

of  the  forest, 
And  hear  all  day  long  the  thrush  repeat  his  song. 

41 


THE   MILL-POND 

THE  sun  blazed  while  the  thunder  yet 
Added  a  boom  : 
A  wagtail  flickered  bright  over 
The  mill-pond's  gloom  : 

Less  than  the  cooing  in  the  alder 
Isles  of  the  pool 

Sounded  the  thunder  through  that  plunge 
Of  waters  cool. 


Scared  starlings  on  the  aspen  tip 

Past  the  black  mill 

Outchattered  the  stream  and  the  next  roar 

Far  on  the  hill. 


As  my  feet  dangling  teased  the  foam 
That  slid  below 

A  girl  came  out.     "  Take  care  !  "  she  said- 
Ages  ago. 

She  startled  me,  standing  quite  close 
Dressed  all  in  white  : 
Ages  ago  I  was  angry  till 
She  passed  from  sight. 

Then  the  storm  burst,  and  as  I  crouched 
To  shelter,  how 

Beautiful  and  kind,  too,  she  seemed, 
As  she  does  now  ! 

42 


IT  WAS   UPON 

IT  was  upon  a  July  evening. 

At  a  stile  I  stood,  looking  along  a  path 

Over  the  country  by  a  second  Spring 

Drenched  perfect  green  again.      '  The  lattermath 

Will  be  a  fine  one."     So  the  stranger  said, 

A  wandering  man.     Albeit  I  stood  at  rest, 

Flushed  with  desire  I  was.     The  earth  outspread, 

Like  meadows  of  the  future,  I  possessed. 

And  as  an  unaccomplished  prophecy 

The  stranger's  words,  after  the  interval 

Of  a  score  years,  when  those  fields  are  by  me 

Never  to  be  recrossed,  now  I  recall, 

This  July  eve,  and  question,  wondering, 

What  of  the  lattermath  to  this  hoar  Spring  ? 


TALL   NETTLES 

TALL  nettles  cover  up,  as  they  have  done 
These  many  springs,  the  rusty  harrow,  the  plough 
Long  worn  out,  and  the  roller  made  of  stone  : 
Only  the  elm  butt  tops  the  nettles  now. 

This  corner  of  the  farmyard  I  like  most : 
As  well  as  any  bloom  upon  a  flower 
I  like  the  dust  on  the  nettles,  never  lost 
Except  to  prove  the  sweetness  of  a  shower. 


43 


HAYMAKING 

AFTER  night's  thunder  far  away  had  rolled 
The  fiery  day  had  a  kernel  sweet  of  cold,    • 
And  in  the  perfect  blue  the  clouds  uncurled, 
Like  the  first  gods  before  they  made  the  world 
And  misery,  swimming  the  stormless  sea 
In  beauty  and  in  divine  gaiety. 
The  smooth  white  empty  road  was  lightly  strewn 
With  leaves — the  holly's  Autumn  falls  in  June — 
And  fir  cones  standing  stiff  up  in  the  heat. 
The  mill-foot  water  tumbled  white  and  lit 
With  tossing  crystals,  happier  than  any  crowd 
Of  children  pouring  out  of  school  aloud. 
And  in  the  little  thickets  where  a  sleeper 
For  ever  might  lie  lost,  the  nettle-creeper 
And  garden  warbler  sang  unceasingly  ; 
While  over  them  shrill  shrieked  in  his  fierce  glee 
The  swift  with  wings  and  tail  as  sharp  and  narrow 
As  if  the  bow  had  flown  off  with  the  arrow. 
Only  the  scent  of  woodbine  and  hay  new-mown 
Travelled  the  road.     In  the  field  sloping  down, 
Park-like,  to  where  its  willows  showed  the  brook, 
Haymakers  rested.     The  tosser  lay  forsook 
Out  in  the  sun  ;   and  the  long  waggon  stood 
Without  its  team,  it  seemed  it  never  would 
Move  from  the  shadow  of  that  single  yew. 
The  team,  as  still,  until  their  task  was  due, 
Beside  the  labourers  enjoyed  the  shade 
That  three  squat  oaks  mid-field  together  made 
Upon  a  circle  of  grass  and  weed  uncut, 
And  on  the  hollow,  once  a  chalk-pit,  but 


44 


Now  brimmed  with  nut  and  elder-flower  so  clean. 
The  men  leaned  on  their  rakes,  about  to  begin, 
But  still.     And  all  were  silent.      All  was  old, 
This  morning  time,  with  a  great  age  untold, 
Older  than  Clare  and  Cobbett,  Morland  and  Crome, 
Than,  at  the  field's  far  edge,  the  farmer's  home, 
A  white  house  crouched  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree. 
Under  the  heavens  that  know  not  what  years  be 
The  men,  the  beasts,  the  trees,  the  implements 
Uttered  even  what  they  will  in  times  far  hence — 
All  of  us  gone  out  of  the  reach  of  change — 
Immortal  in  a  picture  of  an  old  grange. 


HOW  AT  ONCE 

How  at  once  should  I  know, 
When  stretched  in  the  harvest  blue 
I  saw  the  swift's  black  bow, 
That  I  would  not  have  that  view 
Another  day 
Until  next  May 
Again  it  is  due  ? 

The  same  year  after  year — 

But  with  the  swift  alone. 

With  other  things  I  but  fear 

That  they  will  be  over  and  done 

Suddenly 

And  I  only  see 

Them  to  know  them  gone. 


45 


GONE,   GONE  AGAIN 

GONE,  gone  again, 
May,  June,  July, 
And  August  gone, 
Again  gone  by, 

Not  memorable 
Save  that  I  saw  them  go, 
As  past  the  empty  quays 
The  rivers  flow. 

And  now  again, 
In  the  harvest  rain, 
The  Blenheim  oranges 
Fall  grubby  from  the  trees, 

As  when  I  was  young — 

And  when  the  lost  one  was  here- 

And  when  the  war  began 

To  turn  young  men  to  dung. 

Look  at  the  old  house, 
Outmoded,  dignified, 
Dark  and  untenanted, 
With  grass  growing  instead 

Of  the  footsteps  of  life, 
The  friendliness,  the  strife  ; 
In  its  beds  have  lain 
Youth,  love,  age  and  pain  : 
46 


I  am  something  like  that  ; 
Only  I  am  not  dead, 
Still  breathing  and  interested 
In  the  house  that  is  not  dark  :- 

I  am  something  like  that  : 
Not  one  pane  to  reflect  the  sun, 
For  the  schoolboys  to  throw  at- 
They  have  broken  every  one. 


THE  SUN   USED  TO   SHINE 

THE  sun  used  to  shine  while  we  two  walked 
Slowly  together,  paused  and  started 
Again,  and  sometimes  mused,  sometimes  talked 
As  either  pleased,  and  cheerfully  parted 

Each  night.     We  never  disagreed 
Which  gate  to  rest  on.     The  to  be 
And  the  late  past  we  gave  small  heed. 
We  turned  from  men  or  poetry 

To  rumours  of  the  war  remote 

Only  till  both  stood  disinclined 

For  aught  but  the  yellow  flavorous  coat 

Of  an  apple  wasps  had  undermined  ; 

Or  a  sentry  of  dark  betonies, 
The  stateliest  of  small  flowers  on  earth, 
At  the  forest  verge  ;  or  crocuses 
Pale  purple  as  if  they  had  their  birth 

47 


In  sunless  Hades  fields.     The  war 
Came  back  to  mind  with  the  moonrise 
Which  soldiers  in  the  east  afar 
Beheld  then.     Nevertheless,  our  eyes 

Could  as  well  imagine  the  Crusades 
Or  Caesar's  battles.     Everything 
To  faintness  like  those  rumours  fades — 
Like  the  brook's  water  glittering 

Under  the  moonlight — like  those  walks 
Now — like  us  two  that  took  them,  and 
The  fallen  apples,  all  the  talks 
And  silences — like  memory's  sand 

When  the  tide  covers  it  late  or  soon, 
And  other  men  through  other  flowers 
In  those  fields  under  the  same  moon 
Go  talking  and  have  easy  hours. 


OCTOBER 

THE  green  elm  with  the  one  great  bough  of  gold 

Lets  leaves  into  the  grass  slip,  one  by  one, — 

The  short  hill  grass,  the  mushrooms  small  milk-white, 

Harebell  and  scabious  and  tormentil, 

That  blackberry  and  gorse,  in  dew  and  sun, 

Bow  down  to  ;  and  the  wind  travels  too  light 

To  shake  the  fallen  birch  leaves  from  the  fern  ; 

The  gossamers  wander  at  their  own  will. 

At  heavier  steps  than  birds'  the  squirrels  scold. 

48 


The  rich  scene  has  grown  fresh  again  and  new 
As  Spring  and  to  the  touch  is  not  more  cool 
Than  it  is  warm  to  the  gaze  ;  and  now  I  might 
As  happy  be  as  earth  is  beautiful, 
Were  I  some  other  or  with  earth  could  turn 
In  alternation  of  violet  and  rose, 
Harebell  and  snowdrop,  at  their  season  due, 
And  gorse  that  has  no  time  not  to  be  gay. 
But  if  this  be  not  happiness, — who  knows  ? 
Some  day  I  shall  think  this  a  happy  day, 
And  this  mood  by  the  name  of  melancholy 
Shall  no  more  blackened  and  obscured  be. 


THE   LONG  SMALL  ROOM 

THE  long  small  room  that  showed  willows  in  the  west 
Narrowed  up  to  the  end  the  fireplace  filled, 
Although  not  wide.     I  liked  it.     No  one  guessed 
What  need  or  accident  made  them  so  build. 

Only  the  moon,  the  mouse  and  the  sparrow  peeped 
In  from  the  ivy  round  the  casement  thick. 
Of  all  they  saw  and  heard  there  they  shall  keep 
The  tale  for  the  old  ivy  and  older  brick. 

When  I  look  back  I  am  like  moon,  sparrow  and  mouse 
That  witnessed  what  they  could  never  understand 
Or  alter  or  prevent  in  the  dark  house. 
One  thing  remains  the  same — this  my  right  hand 

Crawling  crab-like  over  the  clean  white  page, 
Resting  awhile  each  morning  on  the  pillow, 
Then  once  more  starting  to  crawl  on  towards  age. 
The  hundred  last  leaves  stream  upon  the  willow. 

49  4 


LIBERTY 

THE  last  light  has  gone  out  of  the  world,  except 

This  moonlight  lying  on  the  grass  like  frost 

Beyond  the  brink  of  the  tall  elm's  shadow. 

It  is  as  if  everything  else  had  slept 

Many  an  age,  unforgotten  and  lost 

The  men  that  were,  the  things  done,  long  ago, 

All  I  have  thought  ;   and  but  the  moon  andJI 

Live  yet  and  here  stand  idle  over  the  grave 

Where  all  is  buried.     Both  have  liberty 

To  dream  what  we  could  do  if  we  were  free 

To  do  some  thing  we  had  desired  long, 

The  moon  and  I.     There's  none  less  free  than  who 

Does  nothing  and  has  nothing  else  to  do, 

Being  free  only  for  what  is  not  to  his  mind, 

And  nothing  is  to  his  mind.     If  every  hour 

Like  this  one  passing  that  I  have  spent  among 

The  wiser  others  when  I  have  forgot 

To  wonder  whether  I  was  free  or  not, 

Were  piled  before  me,  and  not  lost  behind, 

And  I  could  take  and  carry  them  away 

I  should  be  rich  ;  or  if  I  had  the  power 

To  wipe  out  every  one  and  not  again 

Regret,  I  should  be  rich  to  be  so  poor. 

And  yet  I  still  am  half  in  love  with  pain, 

With  what  is  imperfect,  with  both  tears  and  mirth, 

With  things  that  have  an  end,  with  life'and  earth, 

And  this  moon  that  leaves  me  dark  within  the  door. 


NOVEMBER 

NOVEMBER'S  days  are  thirty  : 

November's  earth  is  dirty, 

Those  thirty  days,  from  first  to  last  ; 

And  the  prettiest  things  on  ground  are  the  paths 

With  morning  and  evening  hobnails  dinted, 

With  foot  and  wing-tip  overprinted 

Or  separately  charactered, 

Of  little  beast  and  little  bird. 

The  fields  are  mashed  by  sheep,  the  roads 

Make  the  worst  going,  the  best  the  woods 

Where  dead  leaves  upward  and  downward  scatter. 

Few  care  for  the  mixture  of  earth  and  water, 

Twig,  leaf,  flint,  thorn, 

Straw,  feather,  all  that  men  scorn, 

Pounded  up  and  sodden  by  flood, 

Condemned  as  mud. 


But  of  all  the  months  when  earth  is  greener 

Not  one  has  clean  skies  that  are  cleaner. 

Clean  and  clear  and  sweet  and  cold, 

They  shine  above  the  earth  so  old, 

While  the  after-tempest  cloud 

Sails  over  in  silence  though  winds  are  loud, 

Till  the  full  moon  in  the  east 

Looks  at  the  planet  in  the  west 

And  earth  is  silent  as  it  is  black, 

Yet  not  unhappy  for  its  lack. 

Up  from  the  dirty  earth  men  stare  : 

One  imagines  a  refuge  there 

Above  the  mud,  in  the  pure  bright 

Of  the  cloudless  heavenly  light  : 

51  4* 


Another  loves  earth  and  November  more  dearly 
Because  without  them,  he  sees  clearly, 
The  sky  would  be  nothing  more  to  his  eye 
Than  he,  in  any  case,  is  to  the  sky  ; 
He  loves  even  the  mud  whose  dyes 
Renounce  all  brightness  to  the  skies. 


THE   SHEILING 

IT  stands  alone 

Up  in  a  land  of  stone 

All  worn,  like  ancient  stairs, 

A  land  of  rocks  and  trees 

Nourished  on  wind  and  stone. 

And  all  within 

Long  delicate  has  been  ; 

By  arts  and  kindliness 

Coloured,  sweetened,  and  warmed 

For  many  years  has  been. 

Safe  resting  there 
Men  hear  in  the  travelling  air 
But  music,  pictures  see 
In  the  same  daily  land 
Painted  by  the  wild  air. 

One  maker's  mind 
Made  both,  and  the  house  is  kind 
To  the  land  that  gave  it  peace, 
And  the  stone  has  taken  the  house 
To  its  cold  heart  and  is  kind. 
52 


THE  GALLOWS 

THERE  was  a  weasel  lived  in  the  sun 
With  all  his  family, 
Till  a  keeper  shot  him  with  his  gun 
And  hung  him  up  on  a  tree, 
Where  he  swings  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow, 
Without  pleasure,  without  pain, 
On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

There  was  a  crow  who  was  no  sleeper, 

But  a  thief  and  a  murderer 

Till  a  very  late  hour  ;   and  this  keeper 

Made  him  one  of  the  things  that  were, 

To  hang  and  flap  in  rain  and  wind, 

In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow. 

There  are  no  more  sins  to  be  sinned 

On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

There  was  a  magpie,  too, 

Had  a  long  tongue  and  a  long  tail  ; 

He  could  both  talk  and  do — 

But  what  did  that  avail  ? 

He,  too,  flaps  in  the  wind  and  rain 

Alongside  weasel  and  crow, 

Without  pleasure,  without  pain, 

On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

And  many  other  beasts 
And  birds,  skin,  bone  and  feather, 
Have  been  taken  from  their  feasts 
And  hung  up  there  together, 


53 


To  swing  and  have  endless  leisure 
In  the  sun  and  in  the  snow, 
Without  pain,  without  pleasure, 
On  the  dead  oak  tree  bough. 

BIRDS'   NESTS 

THE  summer  nests  uncovered  by  autumn  wind. 
Some  torn,  others  dislodged,  all  dark. 
Everyone  sees  them  :   low  or  high  in  tree, 
Or  hedge,  or  single  bush,  they  hang  like  a  mark. 

Since  there's  no  need  of  eyes  to  see  them  with 

I  cannot  help  a  little  shame 

That  I  missed  most,  even  at  eye's  level,  till 

The  leaves  blew  off  and  made  the  seeing  no  game. 

Tis  a  light  pang.     I  like  to  see  the  nests 

Still  in  their  places,  now  first  known, 

At  home  and  by  far  roads.     Boys  knew  them  not, 

Whatever  jays  and  squirrels  may  have  done. 

And  most  I  like  the  winter  nests  deep-hid 

That  leaves  and  berries  fell  into  ; 

Once  a  dormouse  dined  there  on  hazel-nuts, 

And  grass  and  goose-grass  seeds  found  soil  and  grew. 

RAIN 

RAIN,  midnight  rain,  nothing  but  the  wild  rain 
On  this  bleak  hut,  and  solitude,  and  me 
Remembering  again  that  I  shall  die 
And  neither  hear  the  rain  nor  give  it  thanks 

54 


For  washing  me  cleaner  than  I  have  been 
Since  I  was  born  into  this  solitude. 
Blessed  are  the  dead  that  the  rain  rains  upon  : 
But  here  I  pray  that  none  whom  once  I  loved 
Is  dying  to-night  or  lying  still  awake 
Solitary,  listening  to  the  rain, 
Either  in  pain  or  thus  in  sympathy 
Helpless  among  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Like  a  cold  water  among  broken  reeds, 
Myriads  of  broken  reeds  all  still  and  stiff, 
Like  me  who  have  no  love  which  this  wild  rain 
Has  not  dissolved  except  the  love  of  death, 
If  love  it  be  towards  what  is  perfect  and 
Cannot,  the  tempest  tells  me,  disappoint. 

"HOME" 

FAIR  was  the  morning,  fair  our  tempers,,  and 
We  had  seen  nothing  fairer  than  that  land, 
Though  strange,  and  the  untrodden  snow  that  made 
Wild  of  the  tame,  casting  out  all  that  was 
Not  wild  and  rustic  and  old  ;   and  we  were  glad. 

Fair,  too,  was  afternoon,  and  first  to  pass 

Were  we  that  league  of  snow,  next  the  north  wind. 

There  was  nothing  to  return  for,  except  need, 
And  yet  we  sang  nor  ever  stopped  for  speed, 
As  we  did  often  with  the  start  behind. 
Faster  still  strode  we  when  we  came  in  sight 
Of  the  cold  roofs  where  we  must  spend  the  night. 
Happy  we  had  not  been  there,  nor  could  be, 
Though  we  had  tasted  sleep  and  food  and  fellowship 
Together  long. 

55 


"  How  quick  "  to  someone's  lip 
The  words  came,  "  will  the  beaten  horse  run  home." 

The  word  "  home  "  raised  a  smile  in  us  all  three, 

And  one  repeated  it,  smiling  just  so 

That  all  knew  what  he  meant  and  none  would  say. 

Between  three  counties  far  apart  that  lay 

We  were  divided  and  looked  strangely  each 

At  the  other,  and  we  knew  we  were  not  friends 

But  fellows  in  a  union  that  ends 

With  the  necessity  for  it,  as  it  ought. 

Never  a  word  was  spoken,  not  a  thought 

Was  thought,  of  what  the  look  meant  with  the  word 

"  Home  "  as  we  walked  and  watched  the  sunset  blurred. 

And  then  to  me  the  word,  only  the  word, 

"  Homesick,"  as  it  were  playfully  occurred  : 

No  more. 

If  I  should  ever  more  admit 
Than  the  mere  word  I  could  not  endure  it 
For  a  day  longer  :   this  captivity 
Must  somehow  come  to  an  end,  else  I  should  be 
Another  man,  as  often  now  I  seem, 
Or  this  life  be  only  an  evil  dream. 


THERE'S   NOTHING   LIKE  THE   SUN 

THERE'S  nothing  like  the  sun  as  the  year  dies, 
Kind  as  it  can  be,  this  world  being  made  so, 
To  stones  and  men  and  beasts  and  birds  and  flies, 
To  all  things  that  it  touches  except  snow, 
56 


Whether  on  mountain  side  or  street  of  town. 

The  south  wall  warms  me  :   November  has  begun, 

Yet  never  shone  the  sun  as  fair  as  now 

While  the  sweet  last-left  damsons  from  the  bough 

With  spangles  of  the  morning's  storm  drop  down 

Because  the  starling  shakes  it,  whistling  what 

Once  swallows  sang.     But  I  have  not  forgot 

That  there  is  nothing,  too,  like  March's  sun, 

Like  April's,  or  July's,  or  June's,  or  May's, 

Or  January's,  or  February's,  great  days  : 

And  August,  September,  October,  and  December 

Have  equal  days,  all  different  from  November. 

No  day  of  any  month  but  I  have  said — 

Or,  if  I  could  live  long  enough,  should  say — 

"  There's  nothing  like  the  sun  that  shines  to-day  ". 

There's  nothing  like  the  sun  till  we  are  dead. 

WHEN  HE  SHOULD  LAUGH 

WHEN  he  should  laugh  the  wise  man  knows  full  well 

For  he  knows  what  is  truly  laughable. 

But  wiser  is  the  man  who  laughs  also, 

Or  holds  his  laughter,  when  the  foolish  do. 

AN   OLD   SONG 

THE  sun  set,  the  wind  fell,  the  sea 

Was  like  a  mirror  shaking  : 

The  one  small  wave  that  clapped  the  land 

A  mile-long  snake  of  foam  was  making 

Where  tide  had  smoothed  and  wind  had  dried 

The  vacant  sand. 

A  light  divided  the  swollen  clouds 
And  lay  most  perfectly 

57 


Like  a  straight  narrow  footbridge  bright 
That  crossed  over  the  sea  to  me  ; 
And  no  one  else  in  the  whole  world 
Saw  that  same  sight. 

I  walked  elate,  my  bridge  always 
Just  one  step  from  my  feet : 
A  robin  sang,  a  shade  in  shade  : 
And  all  I  did  was  to  repeat  : 
"  I'll  go  no  more  a-roving 
With  you,  fair  maid." 

The  sailors'  song  of  merry  loving 

With  dusk  and  sea-gull's  mewing 

Mixed  sweet,  the  lewdness  far  outweighed 

By  the  wild  charm  the  chorus  played  : 

"  I'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

With  you,  fair  maid  : 

A-roving,  a-roving,  since  roving's  been  my  ruin, 

I'll  go  no  more  a-roving  with  you,  fair  maid." 

In  Amsterdam  there  dwelt  a  maid, — 

Mark  well  what  I  do  say — 

In  Amsterdam  there  dwelt  a  maid 

And  she  was  a  mistress  of  her  trade  : 

I'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

With  you,  fair  maid  : 

A-roving,  a-roving,  since  roving's  been  my  ruin, 

I'll  go  no  more  a-roving  with  you,  fair  maid. 


58 


THE   PENNY   WHISTLE 

THE  new  moon  hangs  like  an  ivory  bugle 
In  the  naked  frosty  blue  ; 

And  the  ghylls  of  the  forest,  already  blackened 
By  Winter,  are  blackened  anew. 

The  brooks  that  cut  up  and  increase  the  forest, 
As  if  they  had  never  known 
The  sun,  are  roaring  with  black  hollow  voices 
Betwixt  rage  and  a  moan. 

But  still  the  caravan-hut  by  the  hollies 

Like  a  kingfisher  gleams  between  : 

Round  the  mossed  old  hearths  of  the  charcoal-burners 

First  primroses  ask  to  be  seen. 

The  charcoal-burners  are  black,  but  their  linen 
Blows  white  on  the  line  ; 
And  white  the  letter  the  girl  is  reading 
Under  that  crescent  fine  ; 

And  her  brother  who  hides  apart  in  a  thicket, 
Slowly  and  surely  playing 
On  a  whistle  an  olden  nursery  melody, 
Says  far  more  than  I  am  saying. 

LIGHTS   OUT 

I  HAVE  come  to  the  borders  of  sleep, 

The  unfathomable  deep 

Forest  where  all  must  lose 

Their  way,  however  straight, 

Or  winding,  soon  or  late  ; 

They  cannot  choose. 

59 


Many  a  road  and  track 

That,  since  the  dawn's  first  crack, 

Up  to  the  forest  brink, 

Deceived  the  travellers 

Suddenly  now  blurs, 

And  in  they  sink. 

Here  love  ends, 
Despair,  ambition  ends, 
All  pleasure  and  all  trouble, 
Although  most  sweet  or  bitter, 
Here  ends  in  sleep  that  is  sweeter 
Than  tasks  most  noble. 

There  is  not  any  book 

Or  face  of  dearest  look 

That  I  would  not  turn  from  now 

To  go  into  the  unknown 

I  must  enter  and  leave  alone 

I  know  not  how. 

The  tall  forest  towers  ; 
Its  cloudy  foliage  lowers 
Ahead,  shelf  above  shelf  ; 
Its  silence  I  hear  and  obey 
That  I  may  lose  my  way 
And  myself. 


60 


COCK-CROW 

OUT  of  the  wood  of  thoughts  that  grows  by  night 
To  be  cut  down  by  the  sharp  axe  of  light, — 
Out  of  the  night,  two  cocks  together  crow, 
Cleaving  the  darkness  with  a  silver  blow  : 
And  bright  before  my  eyes  twin  trumpeters  stand, 
Heralds  of  splendour,  one  at  either  hand, 
Each  facing  each  as  in  a  coat  of  arms  : 
The  milkers  lace  their  boots  up  at  the  farms. 

WORDS 

OUT  of  us  all 

That  make  rhymes, 

Will  you  choose 

Sometimes — 

As  the  winds  use 

A  crack  in  a  wall 

Or  a  drain, 

Their  joy  or  their  pain 

To  whistle  through — 

Choose  me, 

You  English  words  ? 

I  know  you : 
You  are  light  as  dreams, 
Tough  as  oak, 
Precious  as  gold, 
As  poppies  and  corn, 
Or  an  old  cloak  : 
Sweet  as  our  birds 
To  the  ear, 
As  the  burnet  rose 
61 


In  the  heat 

Of  Midsummer  : 

Strange  as  the  races 

Of  dead  and  unborn  : 

Strange  and  sweet 

Equally, 

And  familiar, 

To  the  eye, 

As  the  dearest  faces 

That  a  man  knows, 

And  as  lost  homes  are  : 

But  though  older  far 

Than  oldest  yew, — 

As  our  hills  are,  old, — 

Worn  new 

Again  and  again  : 

Young  as  our  streams 

After  rain  : 

And  as  dear 

As  the  earth  which  you  prove 

That  we  love. 


Make  me  content 

With  some  sweetness 

From  Wales 

Whose  nightingales 

Have  no  wings, — 

From  Wiltshire  and  Kent 

And  Herefordshire, 

And  the  villages  there, — 

From  the  names,  and  the  things 

No  less. 

62 


Let  me  sometimes  dance 

With  you, 

Or  climb 

Or  stand  perchance 

In  ecstasy, 

Fixed  and  free 

In  a  rhyme, 

As  poets  do. 


THE   END 


63 


P  K I N  T  K  D      AT 

T  H  K     C  II.VV  PEL     RIVER     PRESS, 
KINGSTON,     SURREY. 


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J£DWARD  THOMAS  was  killed  at  Arras   o 

Easter  Monday.  His  poems,  over  the  name 
of  Edward  Eastaway,  had  just  appeared  in  Eng 
land  and  were  considered  of  first  importance  by 
such  critics  as  Ernest  Rhys  and  Thomas  Seccombe. 
Since  Thomas's  death,  his  authorship  has  become 
an  open  secret,  and  the  second  British  and  first 
American  edition  bear  his  name. 

Only  indirectly  are  they  war  poems.  Their 
chief  interest  is  in  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the 
ideas  and  personality  that  shine  through  them. 
They  are  beautiful  in  form,  animated  by  a  deep 
sympathy  for  the  English  character  and  the  Eng 
lish  countryside. 

"Edward  Thomas,  whose  sensitive  Celtic  vision  of  the 
magic  of  the  English  countryside  is  an  abiding  example  of  the 
richness  of  our  poet's  inheritance."— Edward  Garnett  in  The 
Atlantic  Monthly. 


